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The air in the Rolling Stone studio is heavy with the scent of expensive hairspray, industrial floor cleaner, and the electric hum of a career reaching its absolute zenith. The world belongs to the Backstreet Boys. As the five men walk through the double doors, the click of their dress shoes on the polished concrete echoes like a rhythmic countdown. They are dressed in sleek, monochromatic suits that scream "Into the Millennium"—sharp lapels, dark fabrics, and a maturity that feels both earned and slightly borrowed.
Despite the global hysteria waiting for them outside the door, the boys look around in genuine, wide-eyed awe. They aren’t just five guys from Orlando anymore; they are icons being ushered into the hallowed halls of rock and roll history. Mark Seliger stands in the center of the room, his favored camera swinging from his neck like a pendulum. As he watches them approach, a strange wave of deja vu washes over him. He sees the way they lean into one another, the unspoken shorthand of their movements, and the sheer gravity of their collective presence.
“Welcome, guys,” Mark says, stepping forward with a grin that is both professional and disarmingly warm. He shakes each of their hands, lingering a moment on Nick, who looks particularly striking in his tailored black suit, his blonde hair parted down the middle in the era's quintessential style. “I’m Mark Seliger, the chief photographer. I’ll be the one herding the cats today and getting you into position for the cover.”
He pauses, tilting his head as he studies the tableau they’ve naturally formed. “You know, I’ve gotta tell you... Looking at the five of you standing there, aside from the hairstyles and the fact that there’s an extra member in the mix, you remind me of The Beatles.”
The room goes momentarily still. Being compared to the Fab Four is the ultimate high-water mark, and the weight of it settles on their shoulders.
Mark points a finger, orchestrating his vision. “Howie and Nick, you two have that energy—you’re like John and Paul. The songwriters are the core. Kevin, you’ve got that quiet, observant strength... you’re definitely George. And AJ, with that personality? You’re Ringo.” He turns his gaze to the most vocal of the group. “Brian, you actually remind me of their manager, the other Brian. The one keeping the wheels on the bus.”
Brian lets out a bright, skeptical sound that isn't quite a laugh. “Man, when did you even meet them? I thought you were younger than that.”
Nick shifts his weight, his fingers brushing against the sleeve of Howie’s jacket. “Yeah, I thought the only time they were on the cover of Rolling Stone was back in the seventies,” he adds, his voice still carrying that youthful, 19-year-old rasp.
Mark grins, adjusting his camera strap. “The Beatles came in during the winter of ’76. I was only sixteen at the time, interning here and just trying not to trip over the light cords. But that energy stays in the walls, fellas. You’ve brought it back in with you.”
As Mark turns to speak with an assistant, Nick leans closer to Howie, the scent of Howie’s expensive cologne—musky and warm—serving as his anchor. Nick is nineteen, married for a year, and still terrified that the world will find out he’s deeply, irrevocably in love with the man standing next to him.
“This guy’s making me a little nervous, D,” Nick whispers, his voice barely audible over the bustle of the studio. “He’s looking at us like he can see right through the suits.”
Howie shifts, his shoulder pressing firmly against Nick’s in a way that looks accidental to an outsider but feels like a lifeline to Nick. At twenty-five, Howie possesses a groundedness that Nick constantly craves. He keeps his expression neutral, his professional "Sweet D" mask firmly in place, but his dark eyes spark with a protective fire.
“Don't sweat it, Nicky,” Howie whispers back, his lips barely moving. “I’ll play Bad Cop if he starts getting weird or makes us take off our shirts. I've got you.” The reassurance is like a cool drink to quench the fire of Nick’s anxiety. He breathes out, the tension in his jaw finally beginning to melt.
“Alright, follow me,” Mark calls out, leading them into a smaller, more intimate back room. The walls here are draped in heavy grey fabric, and the lighting is softer, more sculptural. He turns to the group, his expression shifting into something more avant-garde. “So, here’s the concept,” Mark begins, gesturing to the floor. “The suits are great for the interior, but for the cover, I want something raw. Something that says you’re stripped down and vulnerable before the new century. I want you to drop your trousers. We’ll let the long shirttails of the dress shirts cover up anything below the waist. It’s a classic look—honest, slightly provocative, but clean.”
Nick’s jaw literally drops. He gawks at Mark, his eyes darting to Kevin to see if this is a prank. But AJ and Kevin are already reacting with their trademark bravado.
“Yo, forget the shirts,” AJ says, already reaching for his belt buckle with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “We should just sign our underwear and toss ‘em into the audience at the next concert. Give the fans what they really want.”
Kevin snorts, shaking his head. “Can you imagine the riot, Bone? People would be tackling each other for a pair of Hanes.”
Mark laughs, though he keeps his eyes on the camera settings. “Sounds like a solid marketing plan to me, honestly. Based on the tabloids, lovesick teenagers are already throwing their bras and underwear onstage every night. You’d just be returning the favor.”
Just as the Boys begin the awkward process of unbuckling and stepping out of their expensive slacks, the heavy door swings open. A man with an impeccable sense of style and a sharp, discerning gaze walks in. He is dressed in a way that screams high fashion—structured, deliberate, and undeniably chic.
“The senior Fashion and Style writer of Vogue has arrived,” Mark announces with a flourish. “Everyone, meet Christian Allaire.”
The timing couldn’t be more ridiculous. The five most famous men in the world are currently standing in their boxers, pants pooled around their ankles, clutching the hems of their white dress shirts. AJ, never one to miss an opportunity for a spectacle, immediately strikes a lewd pose, winking at the newcomer to try and provoke a reaction. Kevin joins in, making a series of suggestive gestures designed to make any fashion elite blush. Christian, however, doesn't even blink. He adjusts his glasses, his expression one of bored professional interest as he surveys the scene.
“Nice try, boys,” Mark says, suppressing a smile as he walks over to Christian and places a hand on his shoulder. “But this is Christian Allaire, my boyfriend. He’s seen it all, and he’s definitely seen better than you lot.”
The revelation causes a ripple of surprise. For Nick and Howie, the moment is a sudden, sharp intake of breath. They look at Mark and Christian—two successful, professional men, standing openly together in a room full of people. It’s a glimpse into a world they aren’t yet allowed to inhabit, a world where love doesn't have to be a secret whispered in the back of a tour bus.
For the next hour, Christian and Mark work in perfect tandem. Christian moves among them, adjusting the fall of a shirt or the angle of a bare leg with a clinical touch. Mark barks directions, his shutter clicking in a rapid-fire staccato. They position the Boys just right—shoulders overlapping, eyes directed at the lens with a mix of defiance and youth.
“Hold that. Don't move. Perfect,” Mark commands.
The flashes are blinding, but the energy in the room is electric. Finally, Mark lowers his camera, a look of profound satisfaction on his face. “That’s it. We got it. You guys were brilliant.”
The release of tension is immediate. The Boys scramble for their pants, the professional facade cracking into their usual chaotic camaraderie. But Nick feels a different kind of urgency. The adrenaline of the shoot, combined with the sight of Mark and Christian’s easy affection, has left his skin humming with a restless, anxious energy. He needs a moment of privacy, a moment to ground himself back in reality.
“I’ll be right back,” Nick mutters to the group, ducking out of the room toward the hallway bathrooms.
Howie doesn't miss a beat. He catches Nick’s eye, a silent communication passing between them that requires no words. He waits exactly ten seconds before following him. Inside the dimly lit bathroom, the door clicks shut and the lock turns. Nick is standing by the sink, staring at his reflection, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. Before he can speak, Howie is there, stepping into his space with the predatory grace of a man who knows exactly what belongs to him.
“You okay?” Howie asks, his voice low and rich.
“Yeah,” Nick breathes, though his hands are trembling slightly. “Just... that was a lot. Seeing them. The way they just... are.”
Howie nods, understanding the unspoken weight of the comment. He reaches out, his hands sliding down from Nick’s waist, disappearing into the back of his trousers. He digs his hands down, his palms finding the familiar, firm curves of Nick’s ass. He starts to playfully grope him, a deliberate, grounding touch that pulls Nick out of his head and back into his body.
“You were the sexiest one in there, you know,” Howie murmurs, leaning in. He begins to press slow, lingering kisses along the side of Nick’s head, his stubble grazing Nick’s temple. “My husband, the rock star.”
Nick lets out a soft, shaky breath, leaning his head back against Howie’s shoulder. The anxiety that had been clawing at his throat begins to recede, replaced by the warmth of Howie’s touch. Here, in the quiet of a Rolling Stone bathroom, the world—the screaming fans, the platinum records, the comparison to The Beatles—all fade away.
“I love you, D,” Nick whispers, turning in Howie’s arms to find his lips.
“I love you too, Nicky,” Howie replies, his grip tightening. “Always.”
For a few more minutes, they stay like that—hidden in plain sight, two men who have everything in the world, but only truly care about the person holding them. Outside, the millennium is waiting, but in here, time stands perfectly still.